


Artist's Blues

by geekdom_is_wisdom



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Artist Grantaire, Depression, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 21:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2083695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekdom_is_wisdom/pseuds/geekdom_is_wisdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living off an artist's wage and unable to afford his medication, Grantaire finds himself slipping into his old habits of misery and heavy drinking - that is, until a gift from an unexpected caller arrives to brighten his palette.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Artist's Blues

Grantaire was on a steady spiral downwards.

It had started off the way it usually did; he could barely drag himself out of bed, let alone out of his apartment, and for once he was glad that he had dropped out of art school so that he had an excuse to stay at home and mope. When he could muster the energy to pick up a paintbrush, he found his palette an ugly smear of black and dark red, and his strokes were messy and careless on the canvas. He ate like a bird but drank like a fish; his apartment grew so untidy that there was barely a surface void of dirty clothes or empty bottles; he went days without showering, and let his hair grow tangled and wild.

Even if he wanted to take his antidepressants – which, considering how drowsy and positively ill they made him, he was not sure he did – there was never enough money around for him to afford them. Between college debts and rent, his artwork sales were barely enough to keep him afloat. When he couldn’t afford his medication his paintings got increasingly terrible, and when his art was terrible it didn’t sell, meaning that he couldn’t afford his medication. 

It was a vicious cycle. 

A week or so passed, however, until any attention at all was brought to the matter; the rest of the Amis had been so overwhelmed in preparation for their college finals that they had little time for friendly domestic visits. It had seemed to be a meeting like any other, with the whole group crammed into the dingy upstairs of the Musain, a rundown but secluded bar a few blocks from campus – Combeferre had managed to acquire the room once a week for no charge, in exchange for the occasional piece of pro bono legal advice. The space was slightly dilapidated, once serving perhaps as a storage room that had since been half-heartedly repurposed. The walls were adorned with ugly scarlet wallpaper that bubbled in patches, and one of the windows was boarded up. In the middle of the room was a long wooden table, scratched and worn but which served their purposes well, and around it crowded a dozen or so mismatched chairs at which sat the members of the esteemed organization.

At the distant end of the table sat Bahorel and Bossuet, who were, unsurprisingly, drinking. ‘Ferre was reading out government press releases from a newspaper to an attentive Joly, with the occasional interjection from Feuilly, and beside them, Courfeyrac was having his hair braided by Jehan. At the head of the table stood Enjolras, talking loudly and increasingly angrily as he attempted to gain more than partial attention from the group. With a scowl, he turned sharply to find someone to growl at – naturally, his eyes scanned the group for Grantaire. After a moment of searching however, his glower shifted into a light frown. The cynic was not seated, as usual, near the back on the left. Indeed, he was not anywhere to be found.

“Where is Grantaire?” he asked irritably.

“’Taire? No idea.” Courfeyrac replied, shrugging – Jehan hissed immediately and told him to sit still, or he would ruin the plait. “I texted him this morning, but he didn’t reply.”

Enjolras’ frown deepened. He tried to reason that the man was probably just hung over from the previous night, or else out with other company, but he could not convince himself of either fact. Grantaire drank plenty, but his attendance to their meetings was as good as Courfeyrac’s or Combeferre’s; and in regards to the latter point, to Enjolras’ knowledge Grantaire had no other friends but the ones in this room.

Grantaire had, of course, received the text. But what was he supposed to say? Sorry, can’t come to the meeting – morbidly depressed and haven’t left the house in days. Oh, and I also probably smell like a liquor store.

The leader was not the only one concerned by Grantaire’s absence. Over the next few days, multiple parties attempted to call or visit him, but his mobile always went through to voicemail, and he never answered the door. Whenever he heard footsteps approaching he sat still on the couch and waited for them to leave. He could hear their conversations as they retreated down the hall. Joly was worried he had fallen ill, whereas Bossuet feared he had been beaten to a pulp in some sort of bar fight. Combeferre did not speculate but expressed his growing concerns to Courfeyrac as they left from their attempted visit.

“If we knew where he was, or what was wrong, perhaps we could help.” Combeferre remarked worriedly, after his second call to his apartment in as many days.

Grantaire hated himself for ignoring his friends, and even more after hearing their concerns, but saw no reason to change the situation. Wish as they may, they could not help what was going on in his head, and he refused to make a charity case of himself and let any of them buy his medication. There was nothing to be done, then, but to stay where he was and hope that the phase left of its own accord. Meanwhile, the kitchen grew emptier and emptier, and Grantaire had zero intention of leaving the apartment to restock on groceries. He would make do.

Another week of lethargy followed, and Grantaire again missed the Thursday night meeting. Every now and again, in the midst of his speech, Enjolras would trail off with a glance at the door, as if hoping R might turn up late. But not even the idea of seeing his Apollo could drag Dionysus out of the depths of his despair.

It was after the third consecutive meeting at which Grantaire had been absent that Enjolras reached the end of his patience. His concern for the drunkard was clouding his judgment and distracting him from the cause, not to mention lowering the morale of the rest of the group to a pitiful degree. Jehan had been in a constant state of puffy-eyed emotional distress for over a week, and the others were scarcely better. It was time, Enjolras decided, to pay Grantaire a visit himself.

Enjolras had been to Grantaire’s apartment only once before, to pick up some flyers that he had designed for a rally – the exchange had been brief, terse, and exceptionally awkward. This time, though, he was driven by far more urgent circumstances.

He took the stairs up to the third floor – the elevator had been broken ever since R moved in – and found his way to the doorway, where he paused momentarily before rapping sharply on the center. There was no response.

Enjolras let out an irritated huff and knocked again, more loudly.

“Grantaire? I know you’re in there.”

This was a lie – he knew no such thing. However, he felt that if Grantaire were home, this would have a good effect.

“I need to talk to you, Grantaire, and I am not leaving until I have.” Enjolras barked sharply, scowling as if hoping the door would fly open at the sight of his grimace. He knocked again – nothing.

“Grantaire, please.” he called desperately. “Just open up. I’m not here to chastise you – I just need to check that you’re alright.”

Grantaire could not help himself; he inhaled sharply, and just loudly enough that the sound travelled out into the corridor. Enjolras flinched slightly, and then banged on the door with renewed vigor. 

“Let me in, or so help me, I will break this door down.” Enjolras threatened. “Do you think I’m joking? One…”

He paused.

“Two…” he said tauntingly, backing up and slanting his shoulder downwards, ready to throw all of his force into breaking the door open.

“Th – “

The door flew open, and a panicked Grantaire panted:

“Okay, fine! I’ll let you in, god damn it.”

Enjolras blinked forcibly in surprise. The Grantaire that stood in the doorway before him was yet more unkempt and ragged than the one he was used to. He wore nothing but a pair of faded jeans, torn over one knee from when he had tripped over a beer bottle the week previously. His bare chest showed an unhealthy prominence of ribcage, the bones jutting sharply beneath the skin - his lack of motivation to eat had more than undone the traditional stoutness associate with excessive alcohol consumption. His hair was a dark, tangled mess, and his face had several days’ worth of whiskers. 

With such a creature standing before Enjolras, ever clean-shaven and chaste, it was not a stretch to view the two men as the sun and the stars, the light and the dark.

“You look awful.” Enjolras remarked bluntly, not one to sugarcoat matters.

Grantaire laughed, the sound entirely void of amusement.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called ahead of time I’d have put a shirt on.”

“I did. You didn’t answer.”

The cynic shrugged carelessly and turned away, retreating back into the apartment, leaving the door wide open behind him. Enjolras took this as permission to enter, and he closed the door behind him before looking around.

Grantaire’s apartment was, in essence, the same as the first time he had visited it. It was a typical artist’s affair, part-studio and part-residence. Multiple easels were set up around the room, as well as a white couch stained with paint and wine, and a secondhand TV set. The tall windows let in a bright cover of natural light, and in the possession of a more house-proud owner, the apartment might have been quite attractive. However, the details were what dragged it down – empty bottles scattered on every surface, clothes carelessly shed onto the floor, dirty mugs stacked on the coffee table. 

Enjolras’ nose wrinkled in disgust, and he glanced across at one of the canvases carelessly strewn on an easel. The smudged figures were dark, bluish stains, barely distinguishable from the off-black background. Even with his virtually non-existent knowledge of art, Enjolras could tell that it was terrible.

Suddenly Grantaire reappeared, buttoning the top of a green plaid shirt. Enjolras glanced away from his artwork hastily. R looked uneasily at the filthy apartment.

“Again, had I know you were coming – “

“You would have cleaned? Honestly, I doubt it.” Enjolras cut in coldly. “Now, do you care to tell me why you’ve decided to avoid all human contact for the last three weeks?”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows, shocked by his brusqueness; Enjolras was usually terse, but never this impolite. Still the fact that he was here at all seemed to imply some degree of concern, so R was willing to be a little forgiving.

“Why do you care?” he returned.

Enjolras’ lip curled in contempt. “Why? Because your unexplained absence is a distraction.”

The bubble of hope that had blossomed in him, that had brought tantalizingly close the idea that his beloved Apollo even gave a damn, popped instantly.

Of course that’s why he’s here, Grantaire thought spitefully. I’m drawing attention from the cause.

“Oh, well, tell them I’m fine.” he replied shortly, turning away, unable to keep his composure.

Enjolras reached forwards and grasped the back of his shirt, pulling the skeptic roughly back towards him.

“That is not good enough.” he growled, blond curls quivering angrily. “Do you know what a mess Jehan has been, or Joly, or any of them? Combeferre was so worried that he nearly failed his philosophy final!”

Grantaire shook his grip loose as he pulled away.

“I didn’t think they’d care.”

“Really? Because they’ve been visiting and calling you every day, as I’m sure you’re aware. And where have you been? Cowering in here, like some wretched hermit.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry for wasting their time. And yours.” he added as an afterthought. “I guess I’ve screwed up your lives as well as mine, isn’t that clever of me?”

“Stop it. Stop.” Enjolras snapped, shaking his head impatiently. “What is wrong with you, Grantaire? 

“A list of what is right with me would be much shorter and less time-consuming.”

Enjolras ignored the jibe.

“And besides, where have you been? Honestly, I can’t see any situation that would require you to pull away like this. If you need legal help, you could just have come to Feuilly or I, or if you were sick, Joly! I mean, why on earth did – “

“There are types of ‘sick’ that Joly can’t fix.” Grantaire muttered, running a hand through his hair absentmindedly, before realizing his mistake.

Suddenly it all clicked in Enjolras’ mind – the drinking, the terrible artwork, the self-deprecation, the hopelessness, the withdrawal.

“You’re – “

“Depressed?” Grantaire interjected contemptuously. “Yeah, no shit.”

“I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize – “

“That much is fairly obvious.” he cut across bluntly.

“Look, Grantaire, I – “

“It’s fine, I don’t care, just… just leave, alright?”

“I could buy your medication. May I? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – “

“You can’t buy my forgiveness, and besides, I don’t want your pity. Just get out. Now.” Grantaire barked, striding across to the door and throwing it open. Enjolras obliged without complaint, and felt it slam shut sharply at his heels.

As soon as the door latched shut, Grantaire fell to the floor in a heap, his knees no longer able to support his weight. His eyes stung with salty tears, and his breath caught in his throat.

~~~{###}~~~

 

The next day, there was a sharp knock at the door. It was still early, so that the noise awoke Grantaire from his drunken slumber – he had fallen asleep on the couch after downing a bottle and a half of red the night before. 

R considered ignoring it, but he couldn’t rid his mind of the image of Jehan, crippled with worry. He picked up a tattered dressing gown on the way to the door and slipped it on as he reached to unhook the latch.

He swung the door wide, but found the hallway empty. Irritated, he went to close it and caught sight of a small parcel sitting on the doormat. Casting a suspicious look around the hall again, he scooped it up and closed the door.

The parcel was small, light, and poorly but painstakingly wrapped in red gift paper. Though Grantaire had no doubts as to who it was from, the small note attached confirmed his suspicions. It read, in a flowing, elegant hand:

‘Art is not what you see but what you make others see.’

\- Degas

Grantaire smiled in spite of himself, and tore the paper off in one swift motion to reveal a little wooden box, with two brass latches. With a puzzled frown he unlatched it, to reveal a set of pristine pastels – light, bright shades in a spectrum, from sunset orange to marigold to pale rose. Guilty, he glanced across at the canvases scattered around the apartment, with their blacks and gloomy scarlets. They were atrocious – dark, unskilled and gloomy.

The gift was meant as medication, of this Grantaire had no doubt, but of a type that he could not possibly refuse; the colors were so pure, and Grantaire’s fingers itched at once with a renewed vigor he had not felt in weeks.

Grantaire’s absence was not mentioned again, by either party, nor was the cause for it; when he arrived at Musain the next week he was accepted back into the throng as naturally as a drop of rain returning to the ocean. Jehan became a blubbering mess upon seeing him – apparently the relief of seeing him well was too much emotion for him to handle – and Joly, Bahorel and Bossuet instantly leapt upon him, crushing him in a tight, smothering embrace. Courfeyrac waved with abounding enthusiasm from the other end of the table. Feuilly glanced up from his busy scribbling with a short, bright grin. Combeferre, by far the subtlest of the group, offered his hand to shake, with a quiet murmur of:

“Glad to have you back, R.”

As for Grantaire’s savior, in a manner of speaking, he acknowledged his only with a short nod in his direction. The colorful stains on the cuffs of the artists’ shirt did not escape his notice, however, and though he would never say it aloud, Enjolras’ heart felt considerably lighter for knowing that the cynic was content – as content as a cynic can be, in any case.


End file.
